


30 Rock S1E03 "Blind Date"

by 100demons



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:36:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5667946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100demons/pseuds/100demons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was 4:17 in the morning according to the internal Doomsday clock ticking away steadily in the back of Ransom’s head, reminding him that he had two days, six hours and forty three minutes until his cell signaling final.</p>
            </blockquote>





	30 Rock S1E03 "Blind Date"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lexie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexie/gifts).



It was 4:17 in the morning according to the internal Doomsday clock ticking away steadily in the back of Ransom’s head, reminding him that he had two days, six hours and forty three minutes until his cell signaling final.

Numbly, he stumbled out of the library, the cold winter air like the sudden grind of ice on his face after a bad fall. Next to him, a small girl in two pairs of sweats (he could make out a double waistband, peeking out underneath the edge her winter jacket) trooped up the steps to the library doors, a bag of caffeine powder in one hand and a grim, determined look in her eye. She had a p chem textbook sticking out from her shoulder bag and Ransom gave her a drained, sympathetic grimace that she returned silently, two weary ships passing each other during the odd hours of finals week.

He thought about all the hundreds and millions of tiny neurons in her brain reacting to the influx of pure caffeine, synapses firing and exploding, the rushing flow of acetylcholine and the inhibition of acetylcholinesterase, dancing like little molecules with party hats, all lined up in a conga line and going under the figurative limbo stick, _how low can you go, how low can your average go_ \--

“Fuck,” Ransom said, rubbing his eyes, and headed back for the Haus.

The walk was easy, familiar, muscle memory taking him through the icy winding paths back to his room, while his brain went away for a little while. Before he realized it, he was stamping his boots on the muddy doormat outside the front door and jimmying the door knob open with a deft, practiced twist.

In the kitchen, he could see and smell the remnants of Bitty’s frantic stress baking littered all over the kitchen counters and the oven. The sink was piled high with dirty bowls, proof of Bitty’s quick descent into insanity.

Still, Ransom reflected, mouth full of blueberry crumble pie, no matter his mental state, Bitty made good food. He carried the pie tin all the way up the stairs, easily avoiding the creaking spots. Jack’s door, for once, was open and Ransom caught a glimpse of a naked Shitty asleep on the foot of Jack’s bed, head pillowed on _Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity_ and covered in post-it notes with scribbles like _???????? how to word?????_. Jack was sleeping in his desk chair like a weird mummy robot, arms crossed over his chest, the hollows of his face illuminated by the faint glow of his desk lamp.

Bitty’s door was closed, and the lights were off; Ransom helped himself to another generous bite of pie in silent, thankful salute as he passed by, then headed up towards the attic.

He could hear faint voices chatting in muffled conversation before he made it all the way up the steps, soft and as familiar to him as a stick in his hands and sharp skates against clean ice.

“Hey,” Ransom called out quietly, checking the door open with his hip.

Holster looked up from the cocoon of blankets he made on the floor and gave Ransom a muzzy, tired grin. “You’re back early. Pie?”

“Your favorite,” Ransom gestured, shucking off his boots and his backpack before padding over to Holster’s side, nudging him with a toe. “Move your ass.”

Holster obliged, juggling the laptop, charger cable, and the giant bag of cheetos in his lap. Ransom plopped down on the floor with a deep sigh, handing off the pie so he could wriggle out of his jacket and hoodie.

“What season are you on?” he muttered, briefly catching sight of Liz Lemon and Jack Donaghy arguing over bisexual shoes on Holster’s smudgy laptop screen as he pulled the last bit of fabric over his head.

“Rewatching one,” Holster said around a mouthful of cheetos and blueberry pie. “Can you do my glasses for me?” He held up his cheeto-dust covered hands in silent plea.

Ransom bumped shoulders with him, reaching over casually to push Holster’s glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“How many of the echo lectures did you go through?”

Ransom made a see-saw motion with a hand. “Like fifteen, I’ve got like ten more to go. Ended up leaving the library because I couldn’t string two thoughts together.”

Holster nodded self-importantly. “Need to filter the water in your ecosystem,” he said in a deep, wise voice, scratching his scraggly finals beard. “Otherwise all the little coral reefs are gonna bleach out.”

“Uh huh,” Ransom said, leaning his head against Holster’s warm shoulder, pressed against his side. His thoughts felt syrupy slow as he watched Liz go on a date with a lesbian from underneath his lashes, Holster’s body heat and 30 Rock banishing the dancing conga line of acetylcholine molecules from his mind. The internal Doomsday clock shuddered to a creaky halt. 

He fell asleep to the low, husky sound of Adam’s laughter, the taste of sweet blueberry pie still on his tongue.


End file.
